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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070934">Until We Ever Part</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Homebound_Stranger/pseuds/Homebound_Stranger'>Homebound_Stranger</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Case Fic, Dad Javert, Dad Valjean, F/M, Family Feels, Fantasy AU, Javert Lives, M/M, Original Character(s), Rating May Change, Suspense, alternate au, black magic</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 12:40:49</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>18,598</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26070934</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Homebound_Stranger/pseuds/Homebound_Stranger</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>If you could spend your eternal life with another, would you take that chance? If you could create another, more perfect being, would you do it? These are the questions that Jean Valjean must consider as he and Javert begin a new chapter of their lives. But not all is merry; a seemingly simple Path towards happiness takes a very wrong turn. Saddled with the consequences of their actions, Valjean and Javert must be able to navigate their new way of life, all while Paris experiences the worst rash of crime and bloodshed since the fallen barricades three years prior.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Cosette Fauchelevent/Marius Pontmercy, Javert/Jean Valjean</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. The Proposition</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>As usual, this fic came about as a result of a dare and has been brewing since. This is the first time I am seriously writing for the Les Misérables fandom so I do hope I do you all justice! Enjoy this weird AU, inspired partly by angler fish mating habits (DON'T LOOK IT UP) and Sewerchat has lovingly coined "Anglerfish AU". Thanks for reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In all honesty, he isn’t sure he understands the offer when it is first presented to him. Javert starts in his seat, his sharp gray eyes looking almost horrified. The newspaper he had been reading is forgotten, torn slightly by his jump, as he keeps staring at Valjean. Said man sits across from him at the small kitchen table, silent as ever since saying his piece. It’s almost as if he hadn’t proposed the most incredulous idea in the world.</p><p>Valjean, in his maddening, saintly way, continues to keep his gentle face even, contrary to the feeling of sheer frankness he exudes. He doesn’t prompt Javert to speak at once or even invite more conversation by explaining himself more. Instead, he does what he’s good at, giving Javert breathing room to process things, until the taller of the two can croak out his reply: “You want to what?”</p><p>“You know what I said, Javert.” Valjean replies, a wry smile beginning to cross his lips. “I know you heard me. You’re not an old man like I am.” Javert snorts.</p><p>“An old man not yet, Valjean, although I am not the young man I was twenty years ago. But I ask for clarification.” At his lover’s bemused face, Javert softly growls, “You know what I mean, you ninny. What you said… Do you mean you want to take The Path?”</p><p>To this, Valjean’s countenance dissolves. A pink flush dusts his whiskered cheeks, his chin dipping downwards as he looks away. “I think so...I think-I think I’m ready. I feel it’s time to take it.” For a moment Valjean looks off, crestfallen as he adds hurriedly, “Unless you think otherwise! The Path must be taken by two, you know.”</p><p>“I do know,” Javert answers. He’s no stranger to the needs The Path calls for. Everyone knows it instinctively, its siren call that is always below a whisper in the ear. A knowledge from primordial times, from the days that Adam and Eve were cast from Eden for their sin of eating the fruit; some have claimed that perhaps The Path was the truth they had gained. Regardless of its origin, it is as prevalent in their society as it was for the ancients of the bygone eras.</p><p>Still, Javert is careful to explain himself. His tone is as gentle as it can be, in the gruff way that the other loves him for, stating, “I don’t object to your feelings, Valjean. I’m merely wondering if you fully understand what you’re asking of us. It… The Path itself is not an easy task to undertake.”</p><p>An aged hand moves towards him and Javert, wordlessly and slowly, lets go of the paper to grasp it in his larger hand. Valjean’s timid smile grows confidently and Javert’s heart burns brightly. Two years ago such a familiar touch would astound him, perhaps unsettle him. A police spy that has spent his life in the dark recoils at the sort of light a man like Jean Valjean emits. But now, in their shared home on the Rue Plumet, Javert is a natural, accepting the loving gesture and giving his own affection freely.</p><p> “I do. Javert, my love, I feel it’s time. I’m not getting any younger and soon, I may not be fit to take The Path with you.” Valjean beams, his eyes incredibly warm and caring as he says, “I never want to be parted from you. You know that marriage isn’t enough for me.”</p><p>Javert harrumphs, raising Valjean’s hand to his lips, laying a tender kiss to the weathered knuckle. “Cosette would be awfully upset,” he notes. At Valjean’s quirked brow, he amends the thought, “Although, knowing her love for you, I feel she would be very understanding. She has alternatives to The Path than we do.”</p><p>“She would be overjoyed to know I will take it with you.” Valjean says. “She loves you just as much.”</p><p>“If only she realized how terrible an idea that is.” Valjean’s face scrunches at that and Javert can’t help another snort. “What? You know she merely thought of us as friends before that Christmas Eve. Had her nitwit of a husband not revealed us, being as clumsy as he is, she would have never known the man she thought her father’s friend was his lover!”</p><p>“So you think!” Valjean laughs softly, holding Javert’s hand tightly. “She’s told me more than enough times of the way you looked at me, long before we ever courted.”</p><p>“And how did I look at you?”</p><p>“Like I look at you, Javert.”</p><p>“And how do you look at me?”</p><p>Here Valjean’s face glows immeasurably with a pinkish hue, his eyes glittering as he replies, “Hopelessly in love.”</p><p>The silence grows in response to that declaration but it’s obvious, from the dark, ruddy blotches on Javert’s cheeks he isn’t unaffected. “I suppose such evidence exists,” he coughs, his eyes looking askance at the cold coffee he had not yet drunk, as if it personally offended him. Valjean’s laughter is musical.</p><p>--</p><p>It is not for a few days then that they come around to talk about it and by then, Paris has yet again surrendered herself to the night. There is no humid air to warrant an open window yet there is a freshness that Valjean cannot name which urges him to unlatch the sill and breathe in the waning light. Javert, for once, is home early, his bad knee giving him reason to leave with a muttered promise of being back to attack that “paralegal garbage” early the next morning. So God might forgive Valjean’s selfishness, that his lover is beside him as he soaks up the calm.</p><p>A calm that is quickly torn asunder by a simple, if gruffly made statement. </p><p>“You know as well as I that anything we become will likely have my face. I’m told I’m rather ugly.”</p><p>“By the criminals you help arrest,” Valjean says back. “I think you are rather handsome.” He chances a glance behind himself, where Javert is sitting on their bed, looking quite displeased. His long hair is undone and only half tamed by the comb he is using, the navy ribbon he ties it back with laying silently on his lap. He looks nearly feral, a wolf in man’s clothing, a picture that is completed when he pulls back his thin lips to reveal his iconic toothy smile.</p><p>“Myself,” he drawls, his free hand gesturing to the comb, the unfixed hair and rumpled clothing, “is what you think handsome?” </p><p>Valjean sighes. He knows this song and dance very well, knows that Javert is opening the way for criticism. A part of him, the part that has grown to deeply care for others, wishes that his lover would be more kind towards himself, though when has the Inspector ever been that way, even to his own person? But Valjean won’t let him escape down his tunnel of unwarranted self-recrimination.</p><p>“Come now, love, don’t be like that. You know that I find you attractive in any shape or form. You are beautiful to me.” Javert harrumphs and pulls the comb through his tangled tresses, surely snapping a hair or two. Valjean watches him with a quirked brow, a sly smirk making its way onto his face.</p><p> “I find you very lovely, my dear. That is, unless you don’t trust my judgement?” Javert harrumphs, louder this time as he forces another tangle out of his silver and chestnut locks.</p><p>“This, coming from a man who would sermon a cutthroat in hopes to change his ways.” Valjean frowns at that, crossing his arms in defense.</p><p>“Such a thing happened only once and bought us plenty of time for your friends to assist us.”</p><p>Javert scoffs, “Former colleagues, you mean. And for the record, it’s not buying us time if the sermon lasts well past the moment the mugger is in cuffs.” </p><p>Here Valjean rolls his eyes and excuses himself away from the window, towards Javert. He circles the wooden bedpost, his untucked shirt billowing around his stout frame to come upon his lover’s side, pressing his lover’s arm with his fingertips. His eyes are soft and full of tender love. Javert, in his rumpled trousers and wrinkled shirt, can only look at him, this divine saint for a moment’s grace before he glances away, the ruddy complexion back on his cheekbones. </p><p>“Am I wrong,” Valjean begins softly, “to assume that anything born of us will look nothing less than perfect?” </p><p>The former law man has difficulty clearing his throat as he avoids looking at this angel he calls Jean Valjean, the ruddy hue on his cheeks deepening. </p><p>“I suppose there is a chance they will look decent.”</p><p>“Decent indeed!” Valjean laughs happily. “And see here, Javert, it’s not just you we have to consider! The Path is very mysterious in its choices and we might get my looks instead!” He chuckles more, though they quiet considerably as notes the silence that is prevalent. Javert is looking at him strangely, with a face that Valjean cannot determine.</p><p>“...Javert?” he asks. The sound of his only name seems to awaken the former inspector from his quiet state, transforming into something that can only be called Love. </p><p>“Anyone,” Javert replies, “would be blessed by you, my Jean. Looks, temperament and all.” The rosy flush extends further down Valjean’s face, down his neck and to the tips of his ears. </p><p>“You flatter me.”</p><p>“I tell you the truth.” With a grin no less playful, Javert echoes, “Or do you doubt my judgement?”</p><p>Valjean’s cheeks continue to burn brightly. “You are cheeky.”</p><p>Javert’s chuckling is deep and reverberating as he lightly grasps Valjean’s arm, pulling him down to the bed and his lap. He kisses him, tender but with the warmth of passion behind his lips. Valjean shivers with anticipation, his hands coming up to hold his lover, his other half, as he begins his worship. </p><p>He is breathless when Javert kisses him, gasping only when his larger, tan hands slide underneath his shirt, over his backside to massage the soft flesh he finds. Valjean can’t help the tiny moans of satisfaction he makes; Javert has only learned with time how to make him come completely undone. But even though his love continues to grow, a nagging doubt is tugging in Valjean’s mind.</p><p>“So then, is that a yes to taking The Path with me?” he manages to ask as Javert slowly pushes him down to lay on the duvet. His inspector’s eyes are dark with hunger and desire, but there is a glimmer of understanding within their endless depths.</p><p>“Perhaps it is, my Jean,” Javert says quietly, his taller form encasing, embracing Valjean in a cocoon of safety. “Perhaps it is.”</p><p>--</p><p>Since the Dawn of Time, there have been pathways walked, winding roads of evolution and life that end up in different places, in various eras. Some led to the jaws of the Tiger and ended Life far too soon, that such species can only be dreamed of in the imagination rather than be believed to have existed once. Other roads have proved much longer, have turned from tiny trickles of dew into roaring rivers towards an unknown sea. Those that walked along their path grew upright, developed speech and spoke aloud proudly, “I am Man, the Face of God Almighty.” </p><p>But they only became so because a choice was made and, despite the immense fear that may have taken them, took the first step down the winding road.</p><p>Someone will one day say that Life diverges in a yellow wood, that choices must be made in order to continue down the road of Happiness, Sadness and Humanity. All roads from that turning point must be considered, must be weighed and weighed again to know what is truly wanted in the end. He will not be wrong in these thoughts.</p><p>See here that Jean Valjean, ex-convict of Toulon and a self-made gentleman, brimming with the love and kindness bestowed upon him twenty years ago, came to that very divergence in the wood. He wanted and was met with Uncertainty; he dreamed and was greeted by Fear. But because he stood beside a man so strong, so loving, perhaps he could make his choice without doubt clouding his vision.</p><p>The Path he chooses cannot be walked by one. Two must go hand in hand, to face the perils ahead. For what path of Evolution, of Life, is not without its hardships, for the ultimate gift to Ascend and proclaim,</p><p>“I am Man, the Face of God.”</p><p>--</p><p>Javert dreams that night.</p><p>To be honest, he dreams often, of events that happened in the day, of things he wants to see happen in the next. Interspersed in these mundane dreams are the nightmares of a roaring river, of shouting men and dying schoolboys or worse, the smell of sea salt that accompanies the clanking of chains. Those nights Javert does not sleep soundly, getting up to peer out into the inky sky. If he is lucky, the stars will be out, guiding him towards a calm until strong, weathered hands pull him back into a loving embrace. Other times he is not so fortunate, his night dark and seemingly without a measure of hope to cling to.</p><p>Tonight is that sort of night.</p><p>It starts out strangely, but a strangeness that he finds acceptable: he sees a pair of hands that are not his, but his mind says they are, sees an unfamiliar face yet is instinctually made to accept it as his own. He dreams that he is Javert but he is Jean Valjean; he is both and neither at the same time. Lo! He is a Man in reality but in this dreamscape, he is a Lad, barely past the cusp of childhood. He is what The Path makes and for a split moment, a joyous feeling courses through him. </p><p>They did it, they did it, they completed The Path and were rewarded! And look, this boy who will be a Man, is he not so fantastic? This vision of a child that Javert might never meet in Life but will adore all the same, he is strong and just and kind. He is everything that Javert has hoped for, what all parents dream for in their child and Javert feels the pride of any father burn within him.</p><p>But in the midst of celebrating this happy event, a heavy hand falls upon the lad- upon Jean-Javert’s shoulder- knocking him out of his glee. He turns and sees the face of the Law, the faces of Chaboullibte and Gisequt and his own, a Hydra that hisses at him. “Poor boy, Son of the Whore, where do you think you’re going?”</p><p>The irons clasp around his feet and neck, frightening the Lad and Javert. There is a stinging, almost broiling pain upon his back, made in quick succession many times, despite how loudly the boy shrieks in agony. There is the tang of sea salt in the air and Javert is made to cower worse than a beaten animal.</p><p>Not this, not now, this one did nothing wrong-!</p><p>But the Law sees differently, thinks differently and he is dissolved of his voice, his rights and spirit. He struggles and they lash him. He cowers and they kick him. There is no mercy, in this hellish place, born of memory and the darkest nightmares. Javert screams and kicks, to no avail.</p><p>Not him, not the boy, please have Mercy!</p><p>And then he is awake, covered in a sheet of sweat.</p><p>Without a moment to spare, he glances over where Valjean sleeps on, undisturbed in his slumber. It would seem tonight he is blessed enough to have not woken him with flailing or shouting; there are many regrettable instances where such has occurred. Valjean may take it with a kind smile and a warm hug but it always mortifies Javert how powerless he is to his dreaming.</p><p>Like many nights before, he quietly removes himself from bed, his bare feet padding toward the homely window of their bedroom. He looks out into the inky blackness and hopes to find something, a light, a glimmer of hope.</p><p>There is none.</p><p>He gulps. He searches, his eyes wildly scanning. Could his dream portend the worst, should the Path be taken…?</p><p>And there! It is small, so very small, a light peeking out from behind a moving haze. It rises just slightly above the city skyline, that one might mistake it for a distant torch upon a roof. Yet this is surely a star, a beacon of heavenly light, a divine body that brings a sense of calm. As Javert watches it gleam, he notices the other stars that begin to show, as the fog lifts.</p><p>Ah, then perhaps not, the dream only a nightmare meant to cause him doubt. His spirit is light and his determination renewed.</p><p>Glancing back upon the sleeping form of Jean Valjean, he declares softly, “It is so, my Jean. It is so.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. The Investigations in the Dark</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>A sore hand begins the tale, and desperation causes Valjean to seek answers from an unsavory individual.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>A bit of warning that towards the end, there is non-consensual mind reading, so if that is not your cup of tea, please skip it! Also major thanks to enea for help on beta'ing this chapter!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Everything began with a sore hand.</p><p>Soreness was never a foreign feeling to Jean Valjean who, in his many years on Earth, completed feats that would leave the healthiest of men groaning in despair. He lifted an entire town’s economy on his shoulders, as much as he physically lifted that heavy cart to save a man from death. He climbed walls and rooftops to avoid capture with nary a tool to aid him, and saved his daughter’s lover from the doomed barricades. Such wondrous actions would leave lesser men in awe, to gape at the tremendous deeds such a humble man could perform. But every expenditure has a cost; general soreness is usually the price for what is done and Jean Valjean has learned to live with such payments without complaint.</p><p>Yet that Sunday had been much different, in ways he couldn’t begin to imagine.</p><p>The coldness of that bygone morning had not been the worst Paris had experienced for a late August, being cooler than the days beforehand, leaving the dew of the oak leaves sluggishly dripping above him. Sunlight was beginning to filter into the garden through the trees, rousing the harvest from its sleep to begin yet another day of basking in its rays. That day, not so long ago, Jean Valjean had awoken before dawn, smiling to himself as he heard his lover snoring by his ear. </p><p>Javert had grown more comfortable with gestures of affection, over the past years, yet it was in sleep that he truly showed his love. His grip around Valjean’s waist and bicep was firm yet not bruising, his taller frame coiled around him like an extra quilt. Ah, such a pleasant warmth to awaken to! Selfishly, if love could be called selfish, Valjean allowed himself to simply breathe in his contentment, nestled in Javert’s safe hold.</p><p>Of course, being the sort of creature he is, Valjean knew it was time to get up. Carefully, he moved about, extracting himself from Javert’s sleepy hold. With that skill he had refined over the years, he quietly performed his ablutions and dressed. See, that morning he had resolved to be in the garden, for he suspected that the roses needed pruning. Better to take care of the issue while the day was young, before the summer heat returned, he thought. And so he finished dressing, silently leaving his beloved to slumber but not without placing a tender kiss to his brow.</p><p>Javert did not smile but for a moment, his entire body relaxed in his sleep.</p><p>Out in the garden, his sleeves were rolled up, uncaring for the moment that his scars could be seen. Here, in the garden of Rue Plumet, Valjean was safe from prying eyes and could focus solely on what he wanted without fear. What he wanted, of course, was to save the rose bush; Cosette had given it to himself and Javert as a shrub, when she inevitably found out about their courtship. It meant the world to Valjean and sadly, he could have sworn that the leaves were turning. Perhaps disease was responsible? Or the aphids had become too greedy in their quest for a meal? Either way, he needed to save the bush. So he had leaned down, shears in his left hand, ready to cut the rot from the otherwise healthy plant.</p><p>And then? Then there was pain.</p><p>It was a sharp pain, one that starts within his hand, from the knuckle and crackles down the wrist. He had winced and drew back his hand, dropping the shears. What was that? Valjean looked at his hand. It seemed fine, nary a thing out of place.</p><p>Frowning, he picked up the shears and began his task again. Snip, snip, snip. And then! Pain shot through his hand again, this time from his fingers, through the knuckle and down his wrist. This time, Valjean grunted and pulled his hand back for closer inspection. Perhaps he had scratched himself upon the roses’ thorns?</p><p>His hand was pulsating with heat. The fingers felt heavy and swollen, burning warmth despite the slight nip of the air. How queer! Valjean grit his teeth and began again.</p><p>Snip, snip, pain. Snip, snip, snip, pain! The pattern continued and each time, Valjean groaned.</p><p>Perhaps it was the seventh time of this odd fashion, for Valjean really couldn’t recall in the fog of the discomfort, a gentle yet firm hand came down upon his head. “Whatever are you doing out here to groan like that?”</p><p>Valjean, who had for a moment tensed when he felt that hand, relaxed and replied, “Pruning, my dear. The rose bush needs it.”</p><p>Javert sounded unconvinced, as he came to stand beside Valjean and inspect the bush. “Pruning requires groaning? I must confess, gardening continues to confound me with its practices.” Valjean rolled his eyes, an easy smile crossing his lips.</p><p>“No, my dear, it’s not a practice. My hand is sore, that is all, I think.” Javert paused from his inspection, turning on Valjean slowly.</p><p>“...Your hand is sore?”</p><p>“Mmm, very, it would seem.”</p><p>“And yet you continue to work your hand, despite this?”</p><p>Valjean turned his head to look deeply into Javert’s brighter eyes, a soft, apologetic smile fixed on his face. “It’s only soreness, my love. I am older, it happens.” </p><p>Javert did not look pleased. Valjean tried again, this time saying, “Look, it is nothing to worry over. If I rest it, it will be fine.”</p><p>“Show me.”</p><p>“What?”</p><p>“Show me your hand, Valjean.”</p><p>Javert’s tone left no room for argument, the sort of voice he only reserved for when their fights had the potential to get ugly. In Valjean’s opinion, it was too early for a fight. Biting his lip, he decided to obey, bringing his smarting left hand up for inspection.</p><p>Then Javert did something even more queer than the hurting hand. For once, his expression broke, emotion clearly fleeting across his countenance as he saw the result of Valjean’s hard work.</p><p>“Oh Jean! Oh, my Jean! Get up quick, get up!” What worry there was on Javert’s face! Valjean stared dumbly for a moment too long, to which Javert seemed to revert back to his wolfish snarl, as he snapped, “Get up, you ninny! We must wrap that hand at once, you have injured yourself!” </p><p>“But Javert-”</p><p>“No buts! I knew something was wrong when I heard you groaning from the kitchen. Oh, you foolish man!”</p><p>--</p><p>The silence of the kitchen as Javert wet the linen was deafening, the sound of water moving seemingly thunderous to Valjean’s ears. Javert, simply, was disappointed. Not angry, not brimming with rage, but quietly disappointed that Valjean had hurt himself, however unintentionally. That scared Valjean.</p><p>How could he fix that disappointment, especially if he was in the wrong?</p><p>“It is inflamed,” Javert said, turning away from the bowl of cold water to begin wrapping the cold cloth around Valjean’s knuckles. He was gentle, almost too much so, as if he could break Valjean in half with one mistake. “No doubt you strained it. What have I told you about over exerting yourself?”</p><p>“I am not yet feeble,” Valjean sourly replied, obediently keeping his hand still as Javert treated him. “It was just a little time spent pruning.” Javert shot him a glower.</p><p>“In the cold, damp soil, against thick vines with shoddy shears! Honestly Valjean, invest in better tools if you insist on doing these tasks!”</p><p>“The shears are fine. They are in working order.”</p><p>“They are partly rusted, you ninny! They do not snip as they are supposed to. You always  rely on your strength to finish the cut for you!” To this, Javert doesn’t mean to, but his face fixes into an ugly snarl, “And what if, god forbid, that strength is gone!? What shall you do then, Valjean?”</p><p>That drew a silence from the older gentleman, his face gone as white as the hair upon his head.</p><p>What if that strength is gone? What if...Valjean is not as young as he used to be? What if he is going to…?</p><p>Javert seemed to realize his mistake too late, as his face broke into alarm. “No, I did not mean that.” He answered, gently cradling Valjean’s injured hand between his large hands. “You are not going to die on me, Valjean. We have far longer to go before that day of reckoning comes. You know that.” Valjean hung his head.</p><p>“Do I?” he asked, his voice small. “The Lord will call when He sees fit. And I am a greedy, selfish man, to want more than I am allotted.”</p><p>“You have told me God is Loving,” Javert retorted, his tone cautious. “If the Almighty knows Love, he will not punish us by taking us away far too soon.”</p><p>Valjean looked at Javert, into those eyes he fell in love with deeper everyday, and smiled brokenly. “We do not know the Lord’s Plan for us, Javert,” he reminded him, “and we must respect Him when He calls us Home.”</p><p>“Well! Then God will bring us both Home together. I will have it no other way.”</p><p>“Javert, that is not how it works. You know that.”</p><p>“And yet, that is how it will be. That I swear to you, Jean Valjean.”</p><p>--</p><p>Men are a driven lot. They are motivated by the material and intangible things, to strive for something beyond themselves. Sometimes it’s over a long time, a goal that is proudly achieved after much hardship. Other times, a revelation is responsible for their actions, a ghost of things that have happened or are yet to come spurring them forward. The biggest, I am told, is Fear. Fear of loss, fear of being left behind...I was told that was what made Progress a possibility.</p><p>I was told, once upon a time, that is what motivated Jean Valjean to seek the Path.</p><p>A man who had stared Death in the face many times, from the freezing winter in Faverolles to the pits of despair in Toulon, the confession at the Trial of Arras and the bloody scenes of the barricades, was motivated by Fear. But not from the fear of the described events. No, it was a different sort of fear that possessed him, one that caused him to look into the Grim Reaper’s facade and realize his own mortality.  It was, as I have said, a fear of loss or being left behind. He did not want to leave Javert.</p><p>He was desperate that God would be forgiving of any transgressions, to allow them the time to love over the time they had spent opposing each other.</p><p>This is, of course, my own belief, for Jean Valjean never said so. It was not evident to anyone, not even that sly old Inspector, that he ever worried except in the rare instance, as all men do. It was not something that anyone thought that the gentleman thought about, until he proposed the Path to his lover that one day.</p><p>But how did he learn of the Path? That is something I know. </p><p>You see, there exist beings that feed upon our distress, our fears and desires. Perhaps they are demons or maybe something else, creatures from a bygone era. They hide in the shadows, the cracks and gutters of society, untouched by the filth but reveling in the suffering. They know all the aspects of man and all the secrets of Life.</p><p>They are Charlatans, those who impersonate true Wise men, preying on the desperation of others. And Jean Valjean was desperate, oh he was deeply so. So that night in September, he sought the pretenders in their den...</p><p> </p><p>—</p><p>September brings a darkness that is heavy and blighting, suffocating the light in claws that draw the innocent into the jaws of the hunter, soaking lily white petals of youth with red blood. In the worst parts of Paris, the coves of con artists and harlots lie in plain sight. There is something obscene in the landscape, of the sprawling pits that stink of grime and tears. It is where gentlemen are hopeful they will not be recognized as they indulge their whims, where women are abducted into professions they never wished for, that they despise with every fiber of their being. It is not the place for the good and humble to be walking within. But when searching for a Charlatan, one must dig deep into the mire, where the shadows are the thickest.</p><p>Monsieur Fauchelevent, in his disguise, trudged forth into this swamp of sweat, blood and mud, with one thing on his mind that September night, when the sun had already been hidden away by black clouds and the stars were out of sight. Street children and beggars wondered where he headed, worried where that man who showed them pity dared to go. The night in Paris’ worst districts is rarely kind to anyone.</p><p>If only they knew the truth!</p><p>Because in truth, this well to do man was a former convict, prisoner 24601, Jean le Cric, the supposed dead, Jean Valjean. If only they knew, they might stop worrying and say, “Ah, there goes vermin back to its hole, to fester in the muck it was created in!” But that would not be even partially true. See, Jean Valjean appeared that night, living in the disguise of a gentleman, who wore the borrowed clothes of a dock worker, with only one thought on his mind. That thought was to find a Charlatan.</p><p>Valjean somewhat knew where to look, as he descended deeper into the streets that curved and twisted into the crowded buildings rottened by age and disuse. His steps were as quiet as they could be as the couples of young lovers became the women waiting on the corners of streets, calling for their next customers, as respectable officers transformed into slimy drunks. He drove into the bleeding heart of the hellish neighborhoods, because the rumors had to be true. Yes, those rumors he had heard in Toulon. </p><p>Convicts are as desperate as they come and all have attempted to find a Charlatan. These mysterious creatures that feed upon the sickness in every man are said to know where to go, where to hide to escape detection, for a price. The Law can never touch a Charlatan; they naturally avoid any sort of Order. And any convict, who has a stain upon his name, is naturally a friend of a Charlatan, if he seeks to return to his old profession.</p><p>Jean Valjean, though he had abandoned the identity of a thief and convict, was desperate. Therefore, if Jean Valjean was to learn what he wanted to know, he needed to dive deep into the dark, to find the Charlatan that would aid him.</p><p>That is why he was there that September evening. It had taken a month but he had narrowed down the possible places where he might find his quarry, a feat not easily possible to do around Javert. Once or twice, Javert had found out about his investigation, coming upon Valjean with a reminder to eat a meal or to check in where he was. Valjean would hastily stash away his notes, Javert staring quizzically at his flustered behavior. </p><p>Those times, Valjean had luck in convincing him he was busy trying to find the right shop that would have the perfect gift for Cosette’s new baby. Ah, was that not the perfect excuse, that a grandfather would be flustered finding the right gift for an unborn babe? It seemed to work and Valjean was thankful.</p><p>Still, Valjean only expressed the greatest caution in his journeys to the dark, each one made during the nights where Javert was far too busy to be home for a long while. He wore the workman’s clothes to go undetected, wore a wig to cover his white hair and kept his chin tucked beneath his scarf. He would not be recognized – he hoped not to be! How else would he explain his presence in such terrible places to Javert otherwise? Thus, he maintained the carefulness of hiding his activities for nearly a month. And so, when the eveningtide in September arrived, when the world was cold and slick with frost, Javert needed to work overnight. Valjean, for once, took an odd delight in that fact.</p><p>The three establishments where he could meet success would have given Javert panic, for they were the worst lots that men bided their time in. In order, they were a brothel, a gambling den and a pub, each with their usual customers and less than savory owners. In the brothel, the fallen women and greedy pimps would throw themselves at a rich man’s feet, but would it house a Charlatan, one that feeds on the women’s sorrow? More likely, the mysterious being could be in the den of gamblers, feeding upon the losers who spent every franc and blood drop on slim chances for fat winnings. But just the same, drunken men were easy prey for a Charlatan, spilling their hearts and woes to whoever would listen.</p><p>Feeling the cold sweat upon his neck, sticky drops stuck underneath the dark wig and worker’s hat he adopted for this excursion, Valjean made a guess. His workman boots, scuffed and old,  took him towards the pub, where even outside he could hear the loud shouts and cheers of the inebriated. He paused at the door, which was slightly ajar, and peered inside. </p><p>The doors of vomit and ale were soaked into the floorboards, wafting into his nostrils as he tried to see through the crowded tables of chattering patrons and singing alcoholics. They all looked normal, as regular attendants of such a business, rosy-cheeked men hooking their arms around each other as they sang another ballad. Waitresses worked hard to scurry from the kitchen to tables, depositing food and drink to hungry customers. Nothing was out of place. Everything seemed untouched, for the moment, of the chaos of a charlatan.</p><p> Perhaps his instinct was off? </p><p>His eyes roamed from the crowds towards the bartop, where less people appeared to be occupying. From the door, Jean Valjean studied the three forms he could see hunched over the polished wood, taking note of their clothes and postures. They appeared ordinary, a sailor using his wages to buy dinner while two other men sat side by side, most likely conversing. There was nothing out of sorts that would hint at a Charlatan.</p><p>It seemed he was wrong after all. Valjean sighed, defeated.</p><p>He began to step back from the open door, ready to make way to one of the other buildings when suddenly, a queer thing occured. Without reason, the person who sat nearly at the end of the bar straightened in their seat, as if they were shocked by something. Valjean looked at the seated gentleman, his dark clothing making him look like a living shadow in the light, if only for a moment. He wondered what perturbed the other to sit up with such alarm. </p><p>And he gaped.</p><p>There was a Charlatan staring at him from the bartop! Its dark eyes, nearly black orbs in the dim light, were affixed towards the doorway, at Valjean, despite the clamor of the bar. It regarded him with the coldness of such creatures that drain on the emotions of others, its red lips quirked into a small frown. Though he could not distinguish it from so far away, Valjean was sure that the demon had a claw wrapped around the person beside it. The other, a drunk, seemed to be passed out. Given the nature of a Charlatan though, it could be that the man was a meal.</p><p>Finding a Charlatan is one thing but to interrupt one during their feasting is bad luck. Feeling the sweat on his neck turn ice cold, Valjean turned to flee.</p><p>And was met by the Charlatan itself.</p><p>“Leaving so soon? You have barely arrived!”</p><p>Its voice was sonorous, a melody that played low and sweetly, beckoning his ears to listen. Its eyes – or was it his eyes, for it looked fairly male -gleamed like stones in the lamplight. This being– this Charlatan– surely was the image of a perfect dandy, his unnaturally powder white skin free of blemishes or wrinkles, his shiny black curls hidden underneath a silk top hat. Behind his bloody lips were teeth that glowed like marble but were surely as sharp as blades.</p><p>He was a fetching young beauty in looks, for certain, though Valjean tried to keep his calm. Danger oozed from the perfect vision, his black nails shaped like razors from where the gentleman could see. One wrong move, and the Charlatan would strike, with fatal accuracy.  He would have to be cautious if he wanted to keep his head.</p><p>“I was only considering going in, Monsieur,” he stated plainly. He kept his gaze off the black orbs that studied him, methodically pulling him apart to peer deep inside his conscience. Or at least he tried. He could already feel the beginnings of curiosity prick him, his desire to stare deep into the mesmerizing eyes building within him. But if one stares into the abyss, they might find the abyss staring back.  </p><p>So Valjean refused. He resisted to shiver or his voice to quake as he continued to say, “I have business to attend to elsewhere. Goodnight, Monsieur.”</p><p>This was not a lie or a truth, only a statement. It was nothing to be punished for. The Charlatan seemed to know this, as his face seemed to darken with knowing.  </p><p>“Oh, you have business alright, Monsieur,” he was told, matter-of-factly. “In fact, I believe your business dealings have brought you here tonight. I’m certain of it. You see, you were looking for me.”</p><p>Damn. Valjean attempted to stay aloof. “What would ever give you that idea, Monsiuer?”</p><p>The Charlatan laughed and ah, did Valjean find himself wanting to hear that wonderful laugh again. Just once more, keep laughing....Valjean shook himself awake. No!</p><p>He couldn’t–wouldn’t– fall for the obvious tricks that were at play. The Charlatan chuckled, maybe at his actions or something else that amused him. He inclined his head and said, “You’re an obvious man; rather an easy read, if I am honest. But you’re strong in spirit, to try denying me. I like that.”</p><p>Valjean didn’t even see him move before he felt the Charlatan’s talons dig into his bicep, pulling him around and closer to the door of the pub. The rich tone spoke into his ear, like a lullaby on a stormy night. “Come, we have much to discuss. We’ll get a private room, you and I, to conduct our business without more interruptions.”</p><p>Jean Valjean could barely struggle against the magic coursing through him, hypnotically nodding to the suggestion. “Good man,” the Charlatan praised.</p><p>Frog-marching into the pub, Valjean was led past the bar and crowded tables, where witnesses were ignorant of the peril going on. A part of his mind screamed, pleading that they should call out to one of the patrons for help. The magic wouldn’t let him speak. He was docile as a lamb led to slaughter, the Charlatan keeping a vise like grip on him. As they walked, Valjea could hear behind him the monster snapping at the barkeep. </p><p>“We’re using the backroom, Moreau! If anyone bothers us, I’ll have your head.” </p><p>Moreau, from where Valjean could see him out of the corner of his eye, gave them a squint and spat a glob from his chapped lips. “See if I care,” the other grumbled. “I already have one shit to clean up.” So saying, the barkeep kicked the body of the drunk, one that looked far too pale to be comforting.</p><p>That was all that Valjean would see, before he was shoved into the backroom of the bar, the heavy oak door closed with a thud.</p><p>--</p><p>“That’s better,” said the Charlatan, letting go of Valjean. His claws, even yet pointed, glistened in the light of the wax candles around the room. He picked at his cufflinks, putting the golden buttons back into place and doffed his hat before putting it back on his head.</p><p>For a demon of Chaos, this Charlatan seemed to favor looking prim and proper. Even his unnaturally white teeth were straight, as the devil smiled grimly at him. “Alone together, just like we want, eh?”</p><p> At the removal of his hand, Valjean felt the magic stop, the need to obey leaving his mind like wind snuffing out a flame. And it hurt! He crumpled to the floor, sweating, gasping, his lungs aching painfully. The afterburn of the Compulsion slowly went down his spine, down his limbs until it was finally gone. </p><p>Ah, it’s a terrible feeling to be controlled by another. Jean Valjean willed himself not to shed a tear from the agony his body felt; he’d shown enough weakness to the Charlatan. Enough was enough.</p><p>“Come now,” the Charlatan mused, crossing his arms, “it was a simple spell, nothing to be so dramatic over. You were going to run if I didn’t do something to stop you.”</p><p>Valjean gritted his teeth, glaring at the shined shoes beside him. “Well, you stopped me.”</p><p>“That I did. Now, shall we talk? I believe you were seeking me out tonight and I’d rather like to know why. You did interrupt my meal, after all.”</p><p>“Are you going to punish me for that?” Valjean asked. Despite the pain still shooting through his body, he carefully brought himself to sit upright. “I hear that to stop folk like you from feeding is rather like a death sentence.”</p><p>The Charlatan continued to smile but it was without mirth or kindness. </p><p>“In most cases, yes. You picked a fine time to approach me,” the Charlatan stated, pushing at Valjean with his foot. “That fat bastard had enough woe to last for days, all because the stupid pig had no sous for a pint. I’m impossibly full of his despair.”</p><p>“Is that delicious to you Charlatans?” Valjean found himself asking without thinking. “Bad emotions fill your bellies as well as a feast of the finest foods?”</p><p>A wrong move. The Charlatan’s eyes flashed a saffron gold, lightening the room for a split second, a warning to watch his tongue. “The name you want is Lachrymoria, you idiot. Charlatans are what the Church calls us. If you want my help, that is not what you will address me as.” </p><p>The gentleman’s blood ran cold. The unsaid threat was all too real, as he sat transfixed by the glower the demon was giving him. </p><p>“... My apologies, then,” Valjean said. “I didn’t mean to insult you, Monsieur.”</p><p>The demon retreated, the doll-like smile returning. “Good man. You’re smarter than others, I’ll give you that.” </p><p>It was at this moment that Jean Valjean was able to take in the surroundings of the room, sheer terror overtaking him when realization set in. The candles, their wicks burning low, were arranged around the room to light up the various symbols and markings along the walls, all foreign in their languages. Towards a corner of the room, he could see where the demon slept. The coffin was thick across the top, long in length, with nails already rusted red and the wood slightly worn. The iron handles were warped by age and the cross that should have been etched on the face of the burial box was written over in Infernal script.</p><p>Though he did not know Infernal, Valjean knew whatever it said, it was made worse by the blood it was likely written in.    </p><p>Ah, so he was not just in any backroom. It seemed he was unlucky enough to be brought into the Charlatan’s lair.</p><p>The lachrymorian man, noting his panic, only replied to Valjean’s wide eyed fear with a grin that was as devilish as his looks. He ignored that fear, in favor of taunting Valjean. “You are a desperate man, I see. So... what can I do for you, while you sit in my humble abode?”</p><p>“I did not ask to be brought here,” Valjean said. “And I am not desperate.”</p><p>“A lie. You most certainly are a desperate man.”</p><p>Valjean teared his gaze away, angry at himself and outraged by this man. How this supernatural being could unravel him!  “I am under no obligation to believe you,” he chose to say, trying to keep his temper in check. “But let’s be frank. If you pretend to know what business I have, tell me, Monsieur: why am I here?”</p><p>The Charlatan– no, the Lachrymoria laughed and his laugh was as sinister as a devil’s. “Oh, is that the game we’ll play tonight? Fine, I’ll indulge you.”</p><p> Valjean felt the creature hook its claws beneath his beard, forcing his chin upward. Black eyes, blacker than any natural darkness holds, stared deep into Valjean’s soul, no matter how hard he tried to fight. No matter what he did to keep them from doing so, those eyes tore into him, deep and as piercing as the talons that gripped his chin. It was an unpleasant feeling, to be stripped so bare without his consent.</p><p>The monster spoke, slowly, as it read his mind, learning all it wanted to know and more.</p><p>“Your name is Jean Valjean. You are a father, soon-to-be grandfather, and a gentleman. You are a rich man, self-made sort of man. But you have many secrets you try to hide from the world, secrets that could endanger the life you cherish so much.”</p><p>Valjean whimpered. The Lachrymoria laughed and it was chilling to the bone.</p><p>“There’s more! You are in love. You want to keep that love...with a policeman? How fun! And it’s not just any old copper, but it is Javert of the police!” The laughter only grew more cruel.</p><p> “Oh, so that’s what makes you desperate: you love Javert and you want to stay beside him? And thus you want to make a deal with me. What you seek is impossible to do but I? I can make it happen. You know I can.” </p><p>Then, the laughter stopped. For once, the creature seemed in awe, if it could feel such, blinking in surprise. It became a man once more.</p><p>And this man, so thoroughly confused, cocked his head, his hat tipping dangerously close to the side as he remarked, “You’d do anything to make this deal? Even if it endangers your immortal soul?”</p><p>“...You rat,” Valjean whispered, feeling the shame build within him. “I should have never come here.”</p><p>The Lachrymoria chuckled darkly. In his other hand, he summoned a goblet, placing it beneath Valjean’s chin. And he could feel it, the claw that swiped his chin and drew blood into the cup. Valjean whined, the pain and despair greatly weighing on him.</p><p>“As any other who has approached my folk has said before,” the man said simply, sipping at the goblet, wetting his lips. “Men like you, Monsieur, are not a fortunate lot. You all lack something, be it money, reputation or love. But what truly separates you all?”</p><p>The man drank and drank, draining its contents to the last drop. Valjean watched him quietly, not daring to interrupt him, feeling the magic of the demon heal his aching chin.</p><p>Finished, the Charlatan smirked at Valjean, “Your desperation. That is it. If you’re desperate enough, we will come to you. And you sir, are soaked to the bone with the finest desperation I’ve ever had.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Stare Into the Abyss And Fight</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In which Valjean faces down the demon that has him cornered, and the story continues forward into an uncertain future..</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Where do I begin apologizing? When this chapter was nearly ready over a month ago, my computer's hard drive crashed and I lost everything. Books, pictures, you name it. Thankfully, I had this saved in Google Docs and could continue working on it but depression and also seasonal illness kept me from working. Thank you ChaoticPretzel, for kicking my ass in gear!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>I must make a confession; it would not surprise me if those reading this account believed that September evening was when Jean Valjean perishes. It is feasible that he, an old man driven by desperation, fell into the waiting jaws of a tiger and was subsequently devoured. After all, many men before him have faced a Charlatan; they had suffered similar fates of being killed. It would be reasonable to end the story here and say nothing more on the matter.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But that is not the truth and if there is anything I have learned as a chronicler, truth is a concept well sought after. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The truth is that night, Jean Valjean did not meet his end. Although he was trapped in the lair of the damned, Jean Valjean faced the Lachrymoria head on, his soul laid bare in front of the hellish fiend. Perhaps it was due to the near supernatural strength that he possesses, but Jean Valjean was and is not like most men. He has bent with the howling gales but does not break; he has aged in body but is ageless in mind. Therefore, it is obvious that when met with the obstacle that is a vampiric demon, he did what most men could never do.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stood.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Everything hurt. His body ached, the cords of his muscles burning with each move he dared to make. His mind felt sullied. The loose clothes he wore were too tight around his frame, the sinew of his breast unable to expand, to suck in the air it so desperately needed. And he, Jean Valjean, who was the owner of infamous strength and spirit? There was no such thing now, as he held back the moans and cries of a man trapped in a personal hell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The beast, which delighted in his misery, continued to circle him like the vulture he was, black eyes boring holes into Valjean’s vulnerable self. “Had enough?” he crooned, razor like teeth gleaming in the dim light of the lair. They were a grim reminder of what the other was capable of, hiding behind the beauty that his face held. The hunger in his eyes was overbrimming, shimmering with the glaze of a man drunk with control and eager to make the next fatal move.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His eyes were trained on Valjean’s slumped form, his voice mockingly sweet. “Say something, my dear man. Just a word and I will put an end to this meeting. I do so hate to see things suffer.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But the chuckle belied the generous offer. Ah, what a terrible monster this demon was, to gloat and sneer at Valjean’s turmoil! Hatred burned brightly in Valjean’s soul. He glared at the other with what strength he had, while the other continued to taunt him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Get up, Jean Valjean! His soul roared. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The devil who wore a man’s face smiled that doll-like smile, his bloody goblet set aside as his black claws reached for him. “Need a hand?” He chuckled. “Here, allow me to give you some assistance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean grit his teeth. His body continued to burn in the agony of what was hellfire, but his soul still roared loudly, like a lion to his pride. Get up, get up now!!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon was closing in. His fingers seemed to be growing longer, the nails curved into menacing claws. He stepped closer slowly, purposefully, as if he were counting down the moments before he struck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Get up Valjean, do not falter now! His soul screamed. Don’t lose faith!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With great difficulty, he chose to obey.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fae would watch in shock as Valjean struggled to stand. One foot got its bearings and then the other, his limbs protesting fiercely as he regained his balance. Then, as if lifting a great weight on his shoulders, he began to rise; taller and taller he became until Valjean stood to his full height. He towered slightly above the other man, about a head’s worth but it was enough for the demon to take a cautionary step back.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You,” Valjean growled, “have had enough fun at my expense.” The invisible stones which seemed attached to his shoulders felt like they were breaking apart, the relief of their loss giving Valjean strength back. The hellion seemed to comprehend this and furthered his retreat. “You know me now, having torn the truth from me. So tell me what I want to know!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For the slightest moment the other seemed to flounder before a dangerous look overcame him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You dare resist me?” The Charlatan snarled. Were it not for the way his wide eyes stared at Valjean, one would think that the fair folk was still in control. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’ll do more than that,” Valjean answered. The creature blinked at him in disbelief before baring his rows of red-stained teeth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can break you in half,” the other coldly reminded him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And if you try to, I’ll take you down with me,” Valjean replied. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was then that Valjean, with the remaining power he could muster, stuck his hand into his coat’s breast pocket. Instantly, his fingers were met with a smooth, warm texture, a feeling that was deeply familiar and wordlessly comforting to him. He blindly grabbed at it, twisting the strands around his knuckle until he at last freed it from his coat, like a sword removed from a sheath.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A rosary from bygone days, well loved and blessed, was tangled in his fingers like fine silk strands. It was the one he shared in prayer with Javert, the one he always carried on him, a loyal friend in times of need and doubt. Worn by time, it did not glitter like gold; but what little shine of the jet beads and crucifix possessed appeared like a bright sun in the dimness of the room. It was like a lighthouse in a raging storm. It was a saving grace.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And this grace was blinding. The devil, seeing the blessed item in his hands, hissed and recoiled. The Charlatan retreated, jumping back at least a foot or so away, bent like a dog that had been kicked hard. With him further away, Valjean could feel strength returning.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, no wonder he had been so uncharacteristically weak. It was all a trick! There was magic, some curse perhaps, meant to drain him until he would be weak enough to give in. It would not be so difficult to believe that the Infernal font that vandalised the walls and floor said some magic spell that made a meal for the Charlatan easy to obtain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it was all for naught, as the magic was interrupted, a chain broken by the merciful object in his hand. Thank God Almighty, his blessing saved Valjean tonight! </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Lachrymoria, having been outwitted, gave a shrill cry of anger, like the howl of a beast that had been wounded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How dare you!” the demon cried, his black eyes turning to shine that dangerous gold color once more. “How dare you! I invite you into my home, listen to your desires and you bring that cursed garbage here!? I should behead you at once for your insult!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean stood firm. As true as the threat was, he felt no fear, not when he held his beloved rosary. “If you try anything, I will garrote you with the cursed garbage you so hate. Don’t think I wouldn’t. God may have mercy on me, for getting rid of a foul creature like you from this Earth!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>An inhuman roar replied, “I will kill you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean only answered, “I’ll take you down with me if you try!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And so they stood, glaring darkly at one another for minutes on end. The night drew on as Hell’s black eyes bore into Earth’s dark brown. Neither moved a muscle or drew in a breath. All was quiet as they dueled without their fists or weapons. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was the fiercest fight of wills. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To that end, it seemed that Valjean possessed not only superhuman strength in body but also in resolve. For all that hate and icy cold horror could fixate on him, Jean Valjean did not falter. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And much to his displeasure, the fae knew this. The devil-man, unable to stare down his would-be meal, backed down, exhaling a long sigh, one that relaxed his whole being that had been coiled tight. The demeanor of a terrifying monster bled away from him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No, at last Valjean faced the more human countenance of the deadly fae, one that was worn by disappointment and looked at him with thinly-veiled disgust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> “Very well,” the Charlatan said mildly. “Have it your way then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To Valjean’s steadily growing uncertainty, the Charlatan spoke, “We seemed to have gotten off to a bad start to-night. Remove your wig and rosary, Jean Valjean, so that I can see you plain. We will talk about this like civilized people.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He frowned at the other, still keeping his rosary in plain sight. “How am I to trust you?” asked Valjean. “You have threatened me. You have also used me. How am I supposed to trust your words?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The fae gave him an annoyed glare. Are you so stupid, it seemed to say, though the other chose to reply, “I will give you my name. You will hold power over me as long as you remember it. Deal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This was true. Valjean knew of the legends of the fair folk being vulnerable as long as their names were known.  However...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean drew the rosary closer to his pocket but did not put it away. Carefully, he said, “Tell me your name first and I will pocket the rosary.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The creature growled again but he did not let his eyes flash gold. Instead, he answered curtly, “Montparnasse.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse! With that name, the magic which permeated the lair lifted completely. Valjean, who had felt only anguish since his arrival in the den, could feel himself breathe easy, his clothes loose around himself once more. Even the candles that burned low seemed to flicker to life with light as he held the power of the name in his hands.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>As agreed, Valjean gently placed the rosary back into his breast pocket, the beads clacking softly as they were tucked safely away. He grabbed the wig and cap from his head and tore them off, revealing his snow white hair. The Charlatan-no, Montparnasse seemed to accept this by removing his own top hat and overcoat, the articles puffing into tendrils of gray smoke as they were banished by magic means.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Both men were exposed but neither made a move to threaten the other. The battle ground was even once more. The dandy man knew this and shook his head, sighing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are a strange one, Jean Valjean,” Montparnasse said, his eyes narrowed pointedly at the older man. “To think you would resist me so much, enough to actually dispel my magic and threaten me! You’re stupid yet incredibly strong.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am told that sometimes,” Valjean responded, readjusting his workman’s coat. Montparnasse cracked a snicker.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Those who tell you so are wise. You? Not so much.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you going to insult me all night long?” he asked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dandy looked away but did not hide his smile. “Possibly, if our discussion lasts as late. But act less stupid and I may stop before then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Resigned, Valjean rolled his eyes and decided, rather than to indulge the fae’s distractions, to attack the crux of the matter. “That is besides the point. Must I remind you of our so-called business?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Hmph, you are pushy too.” Montparnasse observed. “If you weren’t so vexing, I would find you delightful.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“To eat, you mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That remark made Montparnasse laugh. “To play with! Surely you cannot think that all I want to do is eat!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I find that hard to believe.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your loss, then.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The velvet chair appeared behind Montparnasse like smoke that unveils an object: at first you cannot see it, don’t even know that it’s there and then it is. Dusting off the imaginary dirt from his trousers, the young man sat in the plush seat, sinking into its softness. He crossed his legs at the ankle, his hands folded neatly at his knee. For a demon, Montparnasse had impeccable manners.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” the other began, waving his hand. A seat, much like his own, appeared behind Valjean, bringing attention to its existence by the scrape of its feet on the wooden floors. Valjean looked at the velvet maroon chair in surprise, then to Montparnasse and back to the chair. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The other snapped, “Oh for goodness sake, sit! You have my name, no further harm will come upon you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Although that was true, Valjean sat gingerly on the chair, a nameless anxiety bubbling in his stomach. There was no Compulsion or other spell he could feel endangering him but that didn’t mean there wasn’t a trick or two hidden away somewhere. Still, he forced himself to calm down and hide any discomfort as he focused his attention to the seated fairy dandy.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So,” Valjean echoed. “You know me now, Montparnasse. You know what I want.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A bit,” Montparnasse confessed with a shrug. “Reading a soul can only tell me so much. I know that you are desperate and that desperation is linked to your precious inspector.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But you know that you can help me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“With a deal? Possibly,” the other chimed. “But why not explain the matter in more detail? Then we can discuss what sort of miracle you want me to work for you..”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>I must make yet another confession. The Lachrymoria known as Montparnasse, is, without a doubt, a person of whom I have had difficulty with, both on paper and in life. Although we have had our fair share of experiences in dealing with each other, they have never been remarkable enough to understand who or what makes him up. He has always been an enigma, saying one thing and meaning another, all while laughing at the misfortune that plagues people on a daily basis. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He’s quite a brat. I say that with no fondness on my part.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, the duty of a chronicler is to record truth and while I cannot derive it from the source so easily, I have gleaned bits and pieces over the years. A majority of other knowledge is from witnesses and passing words, checked time and time again for accuracy. It has accumulated into a rather sizable amount of testimony, perhaps the only of its kind that records the mysterious Montparnasse.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> The earliest account that deals with the fae is about two hundred years old, which sets itself in the southwestern prefecture of Orléans, on the River Loire. It is a folk tale, one which states thus: a man, beleaguered by debt and war, tried to drown his two young children in the waters of Loire one stormy night, in return for his wife’s supposed affair with a merchant. He tied them, the twin siblings, together in a sack, one that he heaved off the bridge into the turbulent waters below. Despite their cries, he did not look back on his deed. But lo! Of these poor children, the fae heard them and felt pity. They were rescued by their magic and deformed by it, their vengeance allowing them to become monsters. It is said that they ate their father’s guilt, then his immortal soul until nothing but a decaying corpse was left; they then began their conquest across France, devouring those with black sins and filthy emotions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That is the story of the Loire Twins. Hateful children, saved by magic and becoming demons! It would put a stutter of fear in would-be parents. But it is sworn, by those of older generations, that it is a true story and one of the children, who became well known in squalid circles for being a killer, is Montparnasse.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless, there is more than a folk tale to the demon that takes great delight in pretending to be human himself. Montparnasse, in the eyes of the Law, is associated with the Patron-Minette, that murderous gang of thieves that such characters as the idiot goliath, Gueulemer, the skilled goblin Babet, or the mysterious tiefling Claquesous are infamously a member of. Some say he is the true leader of that bloody four, though were I a betting man, I would say this: he ate the former leader and just so happened to assume his position of authority as a result. It suited him, this demon that fancies earthly wealth and pleasures, to do so.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No matter his origin or how he lives life, what is clear about Montparnasse is that he is the worst lot. He preys on weakness, the risk of situations always in his favor. Jean Valjean took a risk in meeting with him that night but, as desperation often is, he had no other recourse. So he revealed to that fae what his worst fear was, the monster patiently waiting...</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He spoke for minutes on end, his voice quiet in the den, the loud atmosphere of the bar outside forgotten. It was only them, seated face to face as one talked and the other listened, the truth of the matter revealing itself like a mist that lifts off the ragged shoreline.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean’s sadness grew as he spoke, recounting the moment in the garden of Rue Plumet where he realized Life was so disappointingly short.  “I don’t want to be separated so soon but I can’t avoid the Lord’s call home.” He said, eyes downcast. “I can’t possibly do anything to fight Fate.. Can anyone?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse grunted, his mouth hidden behind his hand as he continued to hear out Valjean’s plea. For a near-hysterical moment in his poor mood, Valjean wondered if the demon could sense his sorrow and was only trying to hide his salvation. But so far the Charlatan was playing fair and letting him say his piece without any more magic or mischief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So emboldened by that, Valjean insisted, “But you? You must know of another way for us to stay together. I know the stories of the Lachrymoria's immense knowledge. You must have an answer!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But for all that he had insisted, Montparnasse was oddly quiet. He had sunk further into his chair, legs crossed at the heel as he seemingly pondered, over what to say or what he heard Valjean had no idea.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Minutes passed by with excruciating slowness before the fae chose to speak.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, let me start off by saying this is the oddest request I’ve ever received.” Montparnasse scratched his chin, his black eyes glinting with curiosity. “To be with your loved one longer than your lifespan allows? Well, I’m no expert but eternal life isn’t legal for anyone. Not for you, not for me or any other animal. We all meet our eventual ends, be they sooner than others.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean blinked. He frowned, clearly unpleased. “Lachrymoria aren’t eternal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The demon fae shrugged, his rosy thin lips morphing into a toothy grin. “We’re long lived but eternal is subjective. Our ages can be a few dozen years to centuries but I have never met a Lachrymoria that wasn’t off’ed into the Astral Plane by natural means. And as you have so kindly stated before, a foul creature such as myself won’t be missed if killed.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This was disheartening to hear but Valjean struggled to find a loophole.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But what about-” he began to say. Montparnasse frowned, cutting him off with a flick of his hand, the gesture shocking Valjean silent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t even try,” he warned. “Immortality is the same; even if I made you impervious to all sorts of ills and poisons, you would meet your end soon enough. Someone or something would find a way to end you, for no spell of immortality is perfect.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean floundered, his grimace deepening. “There has to be something you can do!?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The shadowy man only shrugged, his red lips pursed. “Immortality or eternal life, both magics are forbidden by the divine. Believe me, I won’t risk banishment to a hellish plane because you want to stay with your whoreson. “</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t call him that,” Valjean warned, his hand reaching towards his breast pocket. Montparnasse growled, his black eyes rolling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine. Your husband then,” he groused, spitting out the word. “I get it, he means a lot to you but don’t think I haven’t forgotten what it cost me when he first banished me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Banished? That was new to Valjean. “You and he have drawn swords?” he asked. The creature gave a full body shudder, his face twisted in disgust.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And more! You don’t go living any sort of life without meeting those who have an impact on you. Inspector Javert is well known among my kind. Brought the lash down on us both, be us man or other.” Here, the lachrymoria smiles and quips, “Ah, but I suspect you don’t remember me from that time?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean’s silence answers him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Very well,” the other replies, aloof. “It’s of little consequence. You were but a toy, a bargaining chip for a job and I got what I wanted in the end, anyway. Even avoided your dear inspector’s wrath too. But that’s in the past and don’t you want to make a deal now?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjen didn’t look very convinced by his words. “Even with you being full of another man’s despair, you’d make a deal with me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A lachrymoria never says no to any meal,” Montparnasse said, bowing his head, hand over where his heart could possibly be. “Our deals require power. And from the sounds of your request, I must expend a lot of myself to help you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Was this a lie? Valjean protested, “How? How can you help me? You said eternal life and immortality are illegal.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“They are.” Montparnasse brings up his hand to tap his temple, smirking. “But there are ways around such matters, ways to lengthen your lifespan without incurring the wrath of the Divine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For a mere moment, a small hope took place in Valjean’s chest. “You can? Truly?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You said it yourself, my knowledge is vast. And my knowledge leads me to give you this answer. I take it you have never heard of the Path?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The Path? A twinge of familiarity was there, in the back of Valjean’s mind but he couldn’t place how it was so. He was sure he had never heard something like that before and said as much. “The Path? What is that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Montparnasse smiled like the cat who had gotten the cream. For certain, in that moment he had succeeded in capturing Valjean’s attention.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’ll explain it as simply as I can. It is an old technique, a spell if you will, that Nature once relied on to continue the species of Man. With it, you and your partner that you undertake this with will vanish. Poof! You are gone into another plane - or so I’m told. Then you come back, but neither of you exist any longer. Instead, you will be one person, a new person that will live in your place. Together, your souls will be bound until Death do you part.” The man sighs, looking askance at Jean Valjean. “One could say this is Marriage but in a grander sense. You will not be able to undo it and you will be stuck that way until your end. That is the Path, in essence.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We would become… a new person?” He asked, disbelief coloring his face. Montparnasse nodded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“As far as I’m concerned, yes. A brand new person, who will live in place of you both.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And we can’t undo it, after it’s been done?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That’s if you’re so lucky. There are risks, problems, that can occur if you don’t perform it correctly.” The lachrymoria chuckled darkly, adding, “I have heard bastards of nature being born from this spell. If you are so eager to stay with your dear inspector, this is your chance.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean gulped, his throat dry. He felt his skin become clammy, his hair sticking wetly to his nape as he considered the advice. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I can help you prepare,” Montparnasse said. His hand outstretched towards Valjean, a deadly invitation for the man. Innocently, Montparnasse asked, “That is, if we have a deal?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Well.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Jean Valjean would have no idea what he would be in for once he grabbed onto the other’s palm and gave it a shake.</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Leading Towards an Unknown Path</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Before Valjean told Javert his plans, Javert had doubts of what was happening. Also, Valjean tries to make amends by keeping his daughter informed, but her reaction to the Path is not what he expects...</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Again, this chapter had been ready for some time but personal issues, along with panic if it was ready for publishing happened. Now it is ready and I hope you all enjoy more lore! Next chapter is going to earn a higher Rating (probably E) but can be skipped if plot is all you want!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Days pass. Nights, cold and dark as they are in the fall, come and go without incident. Memories are made each time and events, predestined or not, occur without pause. It is normal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At least for a time, things appear normal. In the period before Jean Valjean worked up the courage to sit his lover down and propose to him an unusual plan, life did not stray from the routine he cherished so much; for each morning he was blessed with, he and Javert would wake from sleep, entwined in each other's arms, savoring their leisure before taking breakfast together. Perhaps, if the day was fair to them, they would pray together, silently wishing well for their loved ones and each other, which only ended when Javert would leave for his work. Other times, the day was filled with things to do with many kinds of errands to run. During those hectic occasions, all they could spare each other was a chaste kiss and a loving farewell.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thus it seemed that when the parlous September was replaced by a calm October, nothing was to be found amiss in the Rue Plumet. The occupants merely went about their routines and anything resembling an ancient siren’s call was firmly ignored.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Or so it was the case in that household. The same could not be said for other places in Paris.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blocks away, set on the corner street of Rue Chanoinesse and Rue Massillon, between a well to do bakery and a failing lender, a man worked tirelessly from morning to dusk every day. Stout and weathered in looks, this man was known to many of the people who frequented his office as the kind, old Monsieur Brisbois. He ran Brisbois &amp; Carter, a legal office that once stood proudly in its heyday but now limped, slightly off kilter ever since his English partner had passed some years prior. But business was still good enough that the office neither sank nor heaved itself off a cliff, which pleased Brisbois.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, but one must be wondering: why make the effort to introduce Monsieur Brisbois? Who is he, what importance does he carry, that he must be mentioned in this tale? It is very simple. The answer comes in the man who arrives everyday as the bells of Notre-Dame de Paris strike nine, a tall man with a wolfish face and an equally fearsome glower. To those unlucky enough to see him snarl at paperwork and curse “paralegal garbage”, it would seem Brisbois had gotten himself a terrible employee that would bring his office to ruin. Brisbois never believed that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No; instead he thought himself lucky that he had found such a strong character of resolve and good morals in Inspector Javert. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That opinion didn’t change at all, not even when the 16th of October arrived and the office door slammed open not five minutes after being unlocked. A thunderous voice rang through the small rooms that made up Brisbois &amp; Carter, crying, “Monsieur Brisbois, what is the meaning of this!?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A cry to which Bribois replied calmly,</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Good morning, Monsieur Voclain. A pleasure to see you, and... whatever do you mean?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gerard Voclain was not a small man by any means, being a wraith wrapped in a black bespoke suit, and he towered over the lawyer by a good foot or so. His dark eyes were fixed in a devastating glare that would cow lesser men, but Brisbois met it with a genial smile. In his hand he held papers, nearly crushed to an unrecognizable ball, and he lifted them to shake at Brisbois angrily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“This! This right here!” Voclain snapped, thrusting the wrinkled parchments to Brisbois. “I thought you, of all people, would see reason here; but apparently I was wrong! You – you denied the annulment!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois blinked, teacup halfway to his lips. His white brows furrowed with confusion. “The annulment? You mean the one for your daughter?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The same!” Voclain spat. He threw the wad of papers onto Brisbois’ desk, heedless of how it knocked into the inkwell, spilling black ink everywhere. “Despite our frequent conversations and your bloody assurances, you had it denied!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois blinked again. He put his teacup down onto its simple saucer and, with one wrinkled hand, carefully moved his files around the inky mess. Once done, he brought a hand to his chin, rubbing it thoughtfully. Regardless of the fuming man before him, he hemmed and hawed as if he were merely considering the taste of his tea. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t remember denying any annulment, especially yours. I think I left that job to my assistant to do.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this discovery, the wind seemed to leave Voclain’s sails.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your assistant is responsible then?” Voclain asked. “They denied it on your behalf?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbrois shrugged, easily picking back up his tea to sip at.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps. See, sometimes my assistant finds problems that I cannot spot the first time and, being my most trusted assistant, he is able to take action once he has my approval. I am sure he was in the right to deny the annulment, however; I trust his eyes more than my own failing ones.” This was obviously the wrong thing to say, for the taller man began to froth at the mouth.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How dare he!” the businessman growled. “Who does this assistant think he is, to deny me, me?! I’ll have his job, you know!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh don’t be that way, Monsieur. He is very experienced in law, so I think-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Blast what you think, Monsieur!! He is nothing more than some bloody, nitwit of an assistant to deny me!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At this time, the clock struck nine and behind the wild man, the door silently opened. The angrier of the two did not notice but Brisbois gave a knowing look at the newcomer. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Meanwhile, Voclain continued to shout, “This cannot stand! When I, Gerard Voclain, demand an annulment then I should GET one! My daughter-she isn’t in her right mind! She doesn’t know better! I am her father and I should be obeyed!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To Brisbois, he said, “Show me where your assistant is. I will personally have a word with him and remind him not to mess with my affairs like so!” Brisbois took a draw of his tea, eyes half lidded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Are you sure about that, Monsieur?” Voclain became even redder in the face, his cheeks colored like an overripe cherry, and his mouth frothed more.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I sure? You dolt, yes I am! Tell me where this buffoon of an assistant is!” Brisbois sipped his tea again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Very sure about that, are you, Monsieur?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Voclain slammed his hands down on the desk, bellowing, “Stop stalling and tell me where he is!! Or do I have to personally call for him myself?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois sighed. “No need for that sort of action, Monsieur.” This time, he looked behind Voclain and asked, “Javert? Care to explain yourself to our guest here?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course, Monsieur.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Voclain turned and blanched as the taller, meaner form of Inspector Javert overtook him, his thin lips pulled back to reveal all his teeth. The wolfish man smiled at Voclain and he, the businessman, was cowed.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Would you care to take a seat, Monsieur?” Javert asked nicely, in that tone that belied of sarcasm. “I will happily explain why I denied the annulment forms which you made on behalf of your daughter, without her knowledge or approval.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois perked up, a smile hidden behind his teacup. “Oh? How did you know it was made without her knowing?” Javert turned his smile to Brisbois and, to those who knew Javert well, his smile became more real.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you know how it is Monsieur; it is customary to follow up claims with all involved party members. Therefore, I called upon Madame Voclain, now Clément, to inform her of our proceedings and ask for her signatures on the forms. I thought I would be saving everyone time, even though Monsieur Voclain here insisted on delivering the forms himself. To my surprise, she and her husband, the Master Clement, seemed quite outraged that this annulment was made by their family member without their consent.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Clément, what did they say to all this?” Brisbois asked as Voclain’s countenance took on a pallor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am happy you ask, Monsieur. They have demanded we halt proceedings and deny the annulment which, if you remember correctly, is not valid as neither newlywed requests it. I took the steps, as you have shown me, to see this through, which is why Monsieur Voclain received the denial as he did.” Javert took a pause, bowing to Brisbois as he mentioned, “Forgive me, something nearly slipped my mind.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh? What was it, Javert?” Brisbois questioned, his smile growing wider. Voclain didn’t have the time to turn and run before Javert spoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The Clément have taken issue with their father-in-law, Monsieur Voclain. They have requested our services to sue.” Upon saying so, Javert turned back to Voclain and his smile transformed into an ugly sneer. “I ought to prepare the paperwork to begin proceedings. That is, unless you wish to drop this matter, monsieur?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think I have seen anyone leave this office quite as fast as he did,” Brisbois said, watching the coattails of Voclain disappear from view. Instead of looking disappointed by that, he was smiling widely, to where Javert stood impassively. “You scared him out of his wits, it seems.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert huffed, his arms crossed and his lips downturned. “Better than he has any left at all,” he groused, his eyes narrowing. His employer cocked his head to the side, a brow raised, his grin deepening his aged face with waves of gentle wrinkles.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose you are not that fond of him, of Volcain?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is it that obvious.” Javert deadpanned. Brisbois laughed heartily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you aren’t the only one with that opinion, my boy! There are plenty who regret doing business with Volcain, more still who don’t look forward to meeting with him. His reputation precedes him in the worst way.” Brisbois' grin, so wide and white, touched from ear to ear. He added happily, “Thank you, my boy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert raised a fine brow, the ghost of a beam-or what passes for one when you are Javert-crossing his cheeks. “For what? Scaring him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I would say ‘reminding’- you simply reminded him that we don’t take well to any sort of threats in this business.” Javert grunted softly in response, looking away. He seemed indifferent to the compliment, yet the slight way he stood up straighter and the tiniest pull at the corner of his lips said otherwise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Had I known he was going to come here, I would have arrived sooner.” he stated, right as he whipped his great coat off his shoulders and gave it a good shake. Tiny droplets of the morning drizzle flew off the woolen fabric, soaking the ancient rug beneath him. Javert tucked his leather gloves into the coats’ pocket and hung it upon their office’s coat rack to dry, along with the awful green scarf Jean insisted he wore. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I was kept longer than I had hoped to be this morning.” Javert offered in lieu of an apology for tardiness. Brisbois only shook his head, his grin never fading from his cheeks.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You do realize you’re on time, which is early for the rest of our colleagues?” he replied with a chuckle. Before Javert could respond, he continued, “Besides, you have a life outside work, my boy. You ought to live it.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert merely frowned, smoothing his shirt cuffs while he walked towards his issued desk. “My life outside of work-” he began but Brisbois cut him off with a cough and a knowing look.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Is more important than work itself!” his employer enthused, having down his tea and making himself useful by throwing a spare cloth onto the ink spill on his desk. Javert gave the spill a curious eye but said nothing on the matter, instead choosing to listen to his boss’ prattle. “We work to supplant our lives outside the sweat and toil. It is but an ingredient to the recipe that makes our lives complete. To choose more of one ingredient offsets the flavor you get, until you’ve messed it up completely! No, my dear boy, life comes first, before the paperwork.”  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert had folded himself quietly on to his chair, his eyebrows curled into a matching frown with his lips. “Out of curiosity, how much tea and tea cakes have you had this morning?” Brisbois waved him off, serving himself another cup of tea from his teapot resting on Carter’s empty desk, punctuating the action with a two heaping spoonfuls of sugar.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you’re beginning to sound a lot like Carter, God rest his soul. The amount is not relevant here, it’s the analogy.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>To this, the younger of the two men only nodded. Without another word he quickly started removing the files scattered across the cherry wood desk, stacking them neatly together before storing them in their proper places. At the same time, he pulled out fresh paper and legalwork that had yet to be sorted through, quiet and efficiently like an agent in the night. Brisbois watched him work without a word, all with the sort of careful eye a person develops when in the business of precision and study. Perhaps he was lost in deep thought or something else, when he finally decided to speak up, for Javert was already in the midst of his gruntwork and had no way to stop him from asking.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Am I to assume that Monsieur Fauchevelent is in good health, or has something happened to him?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert closed his eyes and counted to three before facing his employer. It might have irked him that his superior was a little more privy than others to his life’s details but Brisbois was not a skilled lawyer for nothing. Thus Javert had to say, “He is well. But whatever gives you the impression otherwise?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You maintain a close friendship with him; the only other time you have been ‘kept longer’ than you hoped was when your friend was ill. Therefore, I assume he must be ill again, if you were kept longer than you wished today.” Taking a long draw of his tea, he mused, “Although, it could be nothing more than a simple worry that you have for him.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A worry?” Javert asked. “Whatever would I worry about?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois hardly blinked at him, instead picking up a madeleine to nibble on. “You tell me. Whatever has triggered you has put you on edge. Thus it is nothing to dismiss easily.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This had Javert sighing, leaning back in his chair to run his fingers over his brow. “Must you know me so well?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The old man merely smiled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few minutes passed. Brisbois continued to sip his tea, his free hand picking up his pen, dipping it into the remaining ink in his well to start writing off signatures on documents, all while Javert quietly debated with himself. The scratching of his pen, the crackling of the nearby stove and the quiet rain that began outside was all that could be heard in the office. Then, it broke with a small intake of breath as a chair creaked forward.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“..I feel that he’s hiding something from me,” Javert confessed, sitting up in his chair, his hands folded in his lap. Brisbois stopped writing and carefully put down his pen and tea cup, his attention focused on his assistant. “I don’t know what it is or why he’s choosing to hide it, but I know he is.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You have proof of course,” Brisbois stated plainly. “You wouldn’t be so upset if you didn’t have proof.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert sighed again, looking glumly at his desk. “J-Ultime tried to hide things, notes, a few times when I have come to call on him. And I have checked the addresses of those notes he thinks he hides.” With a grim face, he told Brisbois, “They’re located all over Paris. It’s like he’s on a wild chase of something.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have you any idea of what it could be?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A shrug answered him. “When I say they’re all over Paris, I mean all over. Some are even in the most distasteful districts of Paris. Whyever he would want to go to such places is beyond me.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois considered it. “Ultime Fauchevelent is an almsgiver, no? Perhaps he is trying to find more places to spread his charity.” Javert shakes his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I don’t think that’s it or why else would he hide it from me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are awfully protective of him,” Brisbois said. “He may be seeking to circumnavigate your worry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Do I come off as such a worrywart?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And more.” Brisbois hummed, leaning back in his own chair, a smirk dancing on his lips. “You remind me so much of Carter, you know. He worried so often for me, to the point I would pull out my own hair if he so much as insisted to accompany me for a stroll. Partners as we were, he would always err on the side of being too cautious. Drove me insane, that did.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You always speak so highly of Monsieur Carter though,” Javert retorted. “And weren’t there times where your life was in danger from the blackguards you prosecuted? Wasn’t it justified?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The old lawyer nodded but waved his hand, as if to dismiss the questions hanging in the air. “However true that is, it doesn’t change the fact Carter was just a tad too nervous for my safety back then. Criminals always hold grudges against those who put them away, especially if they are good at their job. If I was in danger, he was too but it was always me he was worried for.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“In that case, perhaps he felt you should have watched your back?” Javert tried but Brisbois merely shook his head.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, never you mind; I was always sure to watch my back. And you’re trying to change the topic, my boy. The fact is, being so protective of me..it made things tough, having a shadow behind me all the time. How else are you supposed to keep surprises as such when you have the intended recipient at your back?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert faltered a little, looking askance. “I...suppose that has merit. But-”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The gentleman cut in, “Your Fauchelevent has a right to keep some things secret. Perhaps what he is planning for is nothing major at all. Has he offered any reasonable excuse to you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“He said he was looking at shops for his daughter, who is expecting.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well then! That is reason enough. It might be just that and he doesn’t want you blathering out the surprise for his daughter.” Brisbois rubbed his chin thoughtfully, smirking as he said, “Although I would bet my salary the surprise is for you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert, who had remained rather impassive during their talk, blanched. “Me?! Whatever for?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come now, my boy, there’s never not a reason for a surprise! You and Monsieur Fauchevelent are so close, I wouldn’t be shocked that he has something in the works for you. A present for his dearest friend.” Brisbois looked delighted as he reminisced, explaining, “I had surprises for Carter all the time, it is partly the reason I was so angry with him when he insisted on accompanying me everywhere. It ruins the fun of shocking your partner with a gift or heartfelt message.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“..Perhaps you are right.” Javert allowed. “Perhaps I am simply too suspicious.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The older man beamed at Javert, clearly confident in his words. “Right. I say give him time, and he may just reveal what he’s doing.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You are right, monsieur. Thank you for your insight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Brisbois hummed, nodding his head, finishing the last dregs of his tea. “But of course, Javert. I am here to help, even if it is a word of encouragement. You needn’t to worry about anything.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The mischievous glint in his eyes didn’t disappear, as Brisbois casually added, “And do tell me when he announces to wed you. I’d much like an invitation.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What!?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>--</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It would seem rather like fate that not even a week later, Jean Valjean sat with Javert at breakfast one seemingly lazy morning and announced what he would like to do. Javert, in response, ripped a newspaper in half and nearly had a heart attack. But when all was said and done, when the arguments and doubts were gone, there could not be a happier pair found in Paris.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Javert begrudgingly gave his associates and boss the good news and subsequently glowered when the lot groaned, collectively reaching into their pockets to hand over francs to Brisbois and a young temp named Martin. Perhaps it was not respectable for a lawyer like Brisbois to collect winnings among his employees but a winning pot is a pot. Jean Valjean only laughed when he learned of Javert’s plight at work, hiding his good cheer behind his cup when Javert groused about it over dinner. Javert seethed for a good while, even laden by congratulations and gifts in the days that followed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Well, not everything can be perfect, thought Valjean. At the very least Javert accepted the tokens of goodwill from his acquaintances and made no fuss as the preparations for taking the Path were made. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Ah, but there was not the end of his troubles: for where one obstacle was conquered, another came to take its place. This time, Jean Valjean didn’t know if his courage would last. The thoughts frightened him deeply as the days passed into weeks, with November coming and going, the blistering blizzards of December suddenly making appearance without him noticing. How could he make such an important decision and not include this variable in the calculations? How could he, the old con, never consider this in the first place? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>However fraught with concern and fear he was, he resolved to make no more delay. So he dressed in his skin of Ultime Fauchelevent, doffed his hat and made his way to make his call upon the Pontmercy couple, hoping against hope he was not too late to tell them his plans. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No matter how many times he found himself calling upon the abode, Jean Valjean, wearing the clothes of Ultime Fauchvelent, could not find himself comfortable inside the Gillenormand house. Yes, he often came to call and see how his fair Cosette was settling, from a newlywed to a lady of a large, bustling manor and now, a mother to be. It filled him with joy to see his daughter, radiant and full of love, smile as she chatted about anything that came to mind. But that did not excuse how awkward he felt stepping onto the polished floors, the high ceilings overhead making the spaces feel larger and emptier than he liked.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A large, empty space with little places to hide...ah, there was no erasure of his anxiety, for Jean Valjean!</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Still, he had to steel himself, as the manservant genially let him into the foyer, taking from him his hat and coat. This meeting could go well or badly, he thought, and he wished to be prepared.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Papa!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Oh, but that sweet call was enough to nearly render his iron will lame. It further felt like collapsing into nothing as his sweet daughter came into view, the soft lavender of her dress bringing a lovely contrast to her bouncing brunette curls and glittering hazel eyes. Her skin was smooth and clear as a lovely day in Summer, glowing with that aura that all mothers have. Her smile was radiant, pearls that shone on Valjean with nothing but affection that all children have for their beloved parents.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Papa, I am so glad to see you!” said she, running-or rather waddling, as her swelling belly was beginning to show-as fast as she could to Valjean. She swept him into a hug that he could not deny her, one that smelled of fresh flowers and tea. “Oh, how much I have missed you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I feel the same, my dear.” he replied, feeling his face crinkle with the sort of pleasure and happiness that Cosette always brought him. He hugged her a moment longer before pulling away, a contrite look upon his face. “Forgive me for being away so long! I would have come calling sooner but I have been busy as of late.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s nothing to apologize for Papa,” Cosette beamed, hugging him once more. Her eyes were wide with good cheer and inquisitiveness, as she asked, “You and Javert must have things to do over at the Rue Plumet, no? That is still where you live?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean nodded. “Yes, we still live there, my dear. And while you are correct, there is something else that we have been working on.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh? Whatever could it be?” She began to question. But before Valjean could tell her, footsteps cut the calm of the room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean turned, as did Cosette, to where Marius Pontmercy was coming down the steps, tying his ascot as he descended. Behind him a servant carried his bag and coat, ready to assist him to the door. But Marius paused as he saw his wife and father-in-law look at him from the foyer and smiled his usual, boyish grin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ah, Father! Welcome back! It’s so good to see you again!” Valjean nodded. It was still a little strange between him and Marius, since their disagreement all those years ago-or rather, Marius’ disapproval of him-but he could not deny how good a son-in-law Marius made. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“The same to you, Marius. I do hope I am not interrupting anything?” Valjean asked. Both Cosette and Marius shook their heads, as the young baron came to join his wife, the servant staying a respectful distance away.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t be ridiculous Papa, you’re always welcome here!” Cosette admonished, her husband nodding eagerly.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marius rejoined, “We have missed you dearly, Father. There is no time when you are not welcome! Why, I am only heading to my office for the day anyway.” To this, he turned to Cosette and sincerely said, “I hate to leave your side, my love, but work is to be done.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cosette only gave him that loving sort of smile, one dripping in the honey of tenderness and warmth that lovers and spouses feel. Javert would have been disgusted by the saccharine display but Valjean had learned to love the love between these two, feeling their happiness infect him in the best way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know, Marius. I do hope you’ll stay safe and come home soon! No overworking, the baby and I will need you at some point!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Marius softened at the mention of their child to be, looking down at his wife’s showing belly with the awe any new father has. “But of course!” he insisted. “I will be back as soon as work permits and see to it you two are comfortable.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With that said, he turned to the servant holding his things, prompting them to come over and help him with putting on his coat. When he had at last taken his briefcase from the servant and dismissed them, he turned to the father and daughter with a bright beam, announcing, “I shall be off now! I hope you have a grand visit, Father; and do come around for dinner sometime with the Inspector, we’d love to have you!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cosette bid farewell to Marius with a kiss to the cheek, which invigorated the young lawyer immensely. He said another goodbye, donned his hat and made his way out the doors, into his waiting fiarce. Valjean watched him go, as did Cosette, both of them smiling.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>A few minutes of comfortable silence passed. “Now,” Cosette said, turning to her father slowly. Valjean caught the mischievous glint in her eye as she spoke to him. “Marius is gone, but weren’t you about to tell me something?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>For all the warmth he had been feeling, Valjean felt his veins suddenly fill with ice water. He scratched the back of his neck, just a tad above his scars, looking away. “It is nothing of import, my dear...why don’t we take a seat, first? There is much to catch up with.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cosette wasn’t deterred. “Papa, do not hide things from me. You were going to tell me something important, weren’t you? What is it?” She frowned, looking gravely concerned. “Tell me you and Javert aren’t in danger, are you?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He shook his head fiercely, clasping her smaller hand in his aged one. “It is nothing like that!” he exclaimed. “There is no danger my dear, I can assure you of that.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you hesitating to tell me?” she wondered aloud. “Papa, did Marius and I not make it clear to you enough? We love you, no matter what sort of past you had. You are a good man and a wonderful father. There is no shame you should feel in telling us anything.” Valjean frowned, glumly looking at the floor.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I-I know that, my dear. Trust me, you, Marius and even Javert have convinced me that I do not need to be afraid of my past or future.” Here he took a deep breath and went for the break. “...Rather, the matter I wish to discuss is a heavy but joyous one, one I should have brought up with you weeks ago. May we sit, to talk about it more?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Although she looked unconvinced, Cosette nodded and slowly led them from the foyer of the manor through the open double doors, where the parlour was set. The mantle, which boasted the early and fine decorations for Christmastide, had already been stroked to a full blaze, ridding the house of that winter chill that threatened to creep in from outside. A low sette was already maneuvered to sit adjacent to the flames for full comfort and warmth, a half finished quilt-most likely Cosette’s current project- folded neatly on a side table. Cosette herself walked to the sette and carefully placed herself down, Valjean close behind to help her balance. She patted the empty space next to her, her brows raised in anticipation. Valjean took the cue to sit beside her and for a moment, he allowed his old bones to soak up the fire’s brimming heat, feeling the dull chill he had carried with him dissipate.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They sat for a few brief moments in contemplative silence before Cosette once again broke the calm. “So what is it, Papa? If it is a joyous reason that has kept you busy, why not tell me and Marius at once? Or is this supposed to be a surprise?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I suppose in some ways, it is a surprise..” Valjean mumbled. Clearing his throat, he confessed, “I meant it, when I said it was a heavy choice. But I must be frank. Cosette, are you familiar with something called the Path?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean did not expect his daughter to flinch the way she did, her eyes wide and fearful. “Oh Papa! The Path!? Why ever would you mention that accursed thing!?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He regarded her with wide, concerned eyes, holding her hand in his. “Cosette, my dear, calm yourself! What do you mean by accursed?” He watched his daughter pale, and he immediately pulled her into a hug. “No, on second thought, don’t tell me. This alarms you. Forget this ever happened, my dearest child.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cosette, who seemed close to tears, only hiccuped and shook her head. She drew strength, it seemed, from the hold her father had her in, her voice small and weak. It reminded Valjean all too much like the time when he had first come to know her, from a dirty hovel in a faraway town. “Oh Papa...Papa! Forgive me. You said the Path and I am haunted by ghosts.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“There is nothing to forgive, my sweet dear. You mustn’t be so hard on yourself.” He replied. He kept his hold on her as she shivered, certainly reliving the trauma of her past. “If anything, please forgive me! I did not know this would bring you such terror.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Cosette shook her head from where it rested against Valjean’s shoulder, her voice still timid. “You couldn’t have known, Papa...I rarely speak of it.” She drew in a shaky breath and with some trouble, drew away to look into her father’s worried eyes. “I am so sorry. You said the Path and I found myself in Montfermeil all over again.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Montfermeil?” Valjean asked, dazed by the revelation. “Why would that draw you back to then?” Cosette looked away, her cheeks flushing in shame.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh Papa, you asked me if I knew about the Path. I know of it: I learned of it back in Montfermeil! Back when that hideous couple had me in their clutches, before you rescued me from that squallor.” A weak smile graced her lips, as she blurted, “I remembered back to that awful time, however long ago it was. Thénardier is no more and I am safe now, because of you and Marius and Javert.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean hugged his daughter closely, swearing, “Of course you are, my dear. We would never let him harm you again.” And Cosette believed him, for some color returned to her face and she began to beam.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Of course. How silly am I, to be haunted by ghosts?” She pulled away from her father’s grasp to sit up straight, but kept his hand clenched tightly in hers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They let some minutes pass before Cosette began again, this time saying, “I know about the spell that is called the Path. They say it is an ancient way that people once used to prolong our race, before God gave us the ability to Love and create children from that Love. Two souls, joined forever as one perfect being. And if you mention it, then that means...you wish to undertake it?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean could not help but smile at her, guilt gnawing at his heart as Cosette only smiled sadly. “Oh Papa, I am happy for you and yet my heart hurts. Is this what you meant a joyous but heavy choice?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I am sorry my dear, I had no idea how this would affect you. I didn't mean to cause you such pain.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It is not you that makes this painful, Papa,” she sighed. “Rather, I remember the stories about the Path from Thénardier and the drunken lot in Montfermeil. I remember horror stories, of the Path going wrong and a monster being made in its place. Terrible things those stories were! But rarely was there a story about two lovers who came together and made something so beautiful, that I would have hoped anyone undertaking that Path would make.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>She turned to Valjean with wide eyes, hopeful and full of wonder. “I know that I am blessed, that I needn’t take the Path to have my child. Others are not so lucky and the Path is their way to happiness. Oh, I would only wish that undertaking the Path, you and your loved one would make the finest child around! You are my Papa, after all; as much as I would be sad to lose you as a father, I cannot doubt you would help create an amazing human being.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean brushed his hand against her cheek, feeling her rest her head in his palm. “I will never leave your side, my dear,” he promised, “be it in this old, aging body or another! You are my precious daughter and I shall always be with you, no matter what.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“That brings me some relief, Papa, it truly does.” She meant it, as her radiance returned with her lovely smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could feel himself feeling a tad more confident now in his choice, but felt it necessary to tell her. “Ah, you mentioned a loved one that I would do this with...I must tell you, it is Javert who will take the journey with me.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This must have been the right thing to say, as Cosette’s features immediately brightened, the pearls of her teeth showing as excitement overcame her. “Oh, it is Javert? Then I am no longer worried!” She hugged her father fiercely, exclaiming, “Javert is a fine man, and he will make a finer half to your soul! Now I have no doubts that the child will be a delight.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“So you say,” Valjean couldn’t help but chuckle, her enthusiasm infectious. “Javert seems convinced that anything he has to offer won’t be good. Much less, he is certain we’ll create a boy!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“And what if you're a maiden instead?” she giggled. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think I could manage the dresses and such,” Valjean mused, the joy and mischief twinkling in his eye. “Poor Javert though; I think he banks that we have a boy, to avoid any undue embarrassment on his part.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I can picture his ruddy cheeks now, he’s awfully cute when he blushes! I hope your child keeps that sort of flushing, for it’s too adorable to give up!” The two shared a good laugh over the idea of a child that could be, all at the expense of Inspector Javert.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually, their laughing ceased and their good humor rested in their bones, warming them even more than the fire. Cosette looked at Valjean and Valjean looked at Cosette, knowing what the other wanted to say.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Cosette,” he said softly. “I know now that I want to do this, with Javert. And though this may seem sad to you, can I at least hope you will look over your sibling?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Papa,” she replied back, just as softly, “I want nothing more than your happiness, as you have given me things to be happy about so many times over these years. I promise to look over my younger sibling, once your Path is complete. And I will name them, for you and Javert.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He hugged her tightly once more. “Thank you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I shall tell Marius when he gets home and knowing him, he shall be happy for you two as well. But enough of these heavy matters,” Cosette leaned forward, curiosity pouring from her gentle countenance. She laced her hands underneath her chin, her sweet voice asking, “What have you been up to then, if only preparing for the Path?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Valjean grinned and told her. Their merriment lasted well into the evening, when Valjean had to make his excuse to leave and be home in time for dinner with Javert. But as he left the Gillenormand house, a spring in his step and his heart light, Jean Valjean couldn’t be more sure of the next step he was about to take.</span>
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